Farm Fresh Blog

Although many dairy people take the babies off their mothers at birth, my schedule just doesn't allow for that. That's why being a good mother is really important to me. I want to know that the does I keep have strong mothering instincts. Feather sure proved that when she delivered two healthy baby boys by herself (undoubtedly with interference by Briar) and refused to leave the second baby (which I didn't see because it was under the cattle trailer) when I tried to lead her away. She is very attentive to both her little boys.

One guy is a real Hoss. He is big and robust and quite the eater. At the moment I alternate between calling him "Hoss" and "Groceries" because he's always eating.

The spotted one is a bit smaller and not as strong an eater. We worried about him at first, but today he seems to have picked up and gotten with the program. (Thank God, because we were going to start bottle feeding him if he didn't.) He appeared to be the one born first and was hiding under the cattle trailer when I found him. I think he had a lot more interaction with an overenthusiastic Briar (thus he was hiding under the trailer) as he is more shy and more easily startled than his brother.

I think he just needs more time with me sitting in the stall taking his picture. He loosened up enough to start checking out my boots this morning. At the moment I'm calling him "Arrow." He has a marking on his right shoulder that reminds me of an arrow. His mother has the same marking.

I'm happy that Feather had two babies as they are already beginning to spar with each other.

So it looks like these guys will be just fine, and all is well in our little world.  :)

   WOW!

We came home from the ranch last night to find that someone gave birth early! Feather was due the first week of April so I thought we'd have enough time to get back, but these babies were just barely dry when we drove up. Briar was already eating the placenta.  (yes... gross, but it's part of her job too!)

The not-so-good news is they are both bucks. I'll either sell them as bucks or wether them and keep them as weed-eaters at the ranch. The good news is that Mom and babies appear to be just fine. Feather is a good momma and considering that she did all this without human help, I'm happily impressed.

  Thank you, Lord!

One that looks like Mom. One that looks like Dad.

"Hello World! Nice to meet ya!"

While I was coughing, doing my taxes, and sleeping, look who grew up!

 Aaaaaand then everything went out of focus because Mommy forgot there were sheep in the yard when she went outside with a puppy and a camera.

When Nyquil is your best friend, the only thing that pulls you out of bed is staggering outside to feed the animals. Let me just say this: A farm is a giant baby that WILL NEVER GROW UP! It wants to be fed - now!

The farm doesn't care if you're sick. The farm doesn't care if you are coughing up a lung. The farm doesn't care if you haven't brushed your teeth or if your hair looks like a rat's nest. It only cares that you walked past the window in search of more Nyquil, thus proof that you are vertical, thus you cannot claim you died in your sleep.

At times like this the farm will post sentries near the fence, animals who assume the responsibility of watching the windows for signs of human activity. These sentries will then alert the rest of the livestock who will begin bawling, neighing, and baaing en masse. It is a barnyard symphony led and conducted by the sentry who witnessed you sneak past that window for Nyquil.

The farm is not your friend. You are sick. You only have two friends - Nyquil & Blue Dawg.

While you huddle under the blanket, awaiting the next coughing spasm, the Blue Dawg waits beside you. When the spasm of coughing seizes you, he bravely wades through it to lick your face, and offer CPR. Should he call 911? Should he make funeral arrangements? Are you an organ donor?  He is Florence Nightingale - the Canine Nurse. Blue Dawg will stay at your side for hours. He is concerned about your health.

The Border Collies are concerned about their walk.

"Exactly how long do you plan to shirk your responsibilities and stay in bed?"

Goats:

Sheep:

When in doubt, a good rule of thumb is:

Tail up = goat

Tail down = sheep

This may not always apply, especially if the tail is docked so closely you can't see it, but it's still a reasonable rule of thumb.

Orville Reddenbacher didn't get that memo.

 He is a sheep, not a goat.

In his defense, when the young ram first moved in, the ewes hated him on sight, and the only group that would let him hang out with them was the dairy goats, so he stayed with the goats, who kinda stayed with the sheep, so it was fine. The plus side is the goats are very tame and thus Orville is decently approachable without being too friendly. But recently I've noted that when the groups get split, young Orville chooses to go with the goats instead of the sheep. Yes, the goats get better food, and more of it, but sheep can't have copper in their diet, thus Orville's continued Identity Crisis can be a bit of a problem. Plus, Orville doesn't NEED the delicious groceries the goats dine on.

And times they are a changing. The pregnant girls are beginning to show. Feather is starting to 'udder up.' Sparrow is getting a matronly spread.

It's time to evict Orville from the group before babies are born. I thought this would be as easy as simply locking the goats up and leaving him outside, but he waits. Like a teenaged boy, he waits. He waits for them to return his Facebook messages and Tweets. He waits.

The goats do not return his affection. He is, after all, a meat sheep, far beneath dairy goats on the Farm Caste system.  They let him hang around because they are ladies, ladies from the South. Well-bred ladies from the South are never rude. After all, there is never a good excuse for bad manners. Bless his heart.

Sometimes all you can do is hold them while they cry. And cry with them.

We were strangers until today, but I suppose God put me on that path because I'd understand. I saw the little dog's broken body in the ditch just across from my mailbox. I went to her and touched her side to make sure there was nothing I could do, but she was cold. Her little red collar was lying beside her at the edge of the road. I picked it up to check the tag, but it was from a clinic far from here, and I knew she was a neighbor. I picked up the collar anyway. At the time, I didn't know why, but now I do, for the collar led me there.

We were pulling into the driveway with a load of feed, so I carried the collar with me while I opened gates to the barn. I got the animals fed and then climbed in the truck to drive to the neighbor's. On my way out the main gate I noticed the little dog's body was gone. They already knew.

But they'd want her collar, so I drove on.  I pulled into the driveway and began calling out. A moment later her tearstained face walked around the edge of the garage clutching the little dog wrapped in a sheet. We were strangers, but in that moment, she was a sister. I opened my arms and held her as she cried. As we cried together.

She set the little dog down on the bloodstained tailgate of her truck and we talked. We held each other and cried some more. And then I knew why I'd been moved to take the collar. It led me to her, and on this terrible day, she needed the warm arms of a stranger who understood the pain of losing a good dog.

Sometimes God just works that way.

There is a quiet peace in the morning, between that time when the sun creeps up and when the farm itself realizes the primary caretaker is vertical. It is when you can walk with the dogs, sipping coffee, contemplating God, life, the sunrise, and how a farm goes through so much hay. Tiny spring flowers struggle to make their way above ground, only to be snapped off by the teeth of the puppy as she races along, bent on making her mark in the world today.

The cows, still bedded down around a dwindling round bale of hay, notice me but do not bother themselves to stand and demand breakfast. The sheep are already out to field, mingling with early rising horses.  I thread my way around tractor implements as the pup races ahead, eager to conquer new heights today. Her joy in the morning is infectious, so even the older dog lowers himself to play in the mist. The puppy tests her legs, her lungs, and her world as she runs faster, climbs higher, and gets bolder with each passing day.

The rain has finally stopped and the water is slowly receding, leaving the blasted mud. Goats and cats, kindred spirits in this weather, huddle in the barn, hating this muddy world together. The pup bounces at my feet, mud dotting the top of her white forehead. Sure that she has my attention now, she races to the top of the dog walk, where she pirouettes like a dancer and smiles back at me.

I smile back. The red troll dog sees my grin and hustles up behind her, eager to prove that he too, can climb to new heights.

I assure him that he is a most wonderful canine and a valuable assest to the farm. After all, every ranch needs a troll that can climb. I survey the pasture, counting fluffy bodies in the distance. The large white dog at the fence has already counted sheep and we compare our numbers to make sure they match.  I already know they will. If the count was off, the dog wouldn't be at the fence.

The coffee gets low as the farm lets out a breath and finally wakes up. The cattle struggle to their feet and call to me. Horses and sheep begin to amble in. Goats peep out of the barn. They won't step into the mud until they are certain I am committed to coming out there. I take that last sip of coffee. It is time, time to feed and face the day and the rising din of racket as the farm wakes from its peaceful slumber.

There are levels of being a ranch dog around here:

Baby Cow Dog:

Sometimes useful Cow Dog:(not really)

Retired Cow Dog:

Useful for lots of chores Cow Dog:

"Go-to" Stock Dog:

But there is one role they all want above any other. This spot is not based on experience and working ability but on desire, and good behavior  - The Truck Dawg!

Job Description:

Must accompany Driver on any and all vehicle trips. Must be able to sit in truck unattended for hours on end. Must be a silent buddy who does not stomp on packages, and raid the groceries in the back seat. Must not chew seats, or steering wheels. Must have good record of not peeing in the truck. (This excludes Mesa at the moment.) Must not lick the windows or bark like a damn fool at passing vehicles. (This excludes Cowboy unless you're feeling generous.) Must be a good guard dog who makes having a "club" or car alarm unneccessary. Must be ready at any hour for the moment the car keys jingle.

Now the Bible says that faith moves mountains because if you believe, God will reward that faith. I'm not sure I really understood this concept until I met this dog:

Trace is living proof that if you want something bad enough, if you believe in it, if you have faith, then God will smile on you and move that mountain. This little guy has taught me much about faith. When things don't go his way, if someone takes something from him, he doesn't dwell on it and pout, he darts his little eyes at us, confident that we saw his problem, confident that we'll make it right. And even though we didn't plan to intervene on his behalf, because of his faith, we do. We make it right for him, because he believes we will. The day I made that connection was quite an epiphany.

And it's that same faith that earns him the front seat. He is no more qualified than Dillon or Ranger, but Trace understands the concept that "Chance favors only the prepared mind." He knows what he wants. He prepares himself so that by the first jingle of car keys, Trace can race through the screen door and across the yard and wait at the truck before the other dogs have even noticed you are preparing to leave.

Trace has a PhD in human behavior. He does not occupy his time with silly things. He stares at his world. He is a scientist with a lab coat, marking his clipboard each time the humans do something. So while Dillon is absentmindedly chewing on the Log Of The Day, and Ranger is rolling in cow poop, Trace is studying the variables and analyzing the probability that we are headed to town. Trace makes his notes and acts accordingly and is waiting at the truck before I've even found my purse.

He is a poker player looking for your "tell." Something as simple as moving a purse from the kitchen table to the counter will have him racing through the screen door to wait underneath the truck. Yes, under the truck. He hides like a stowaway, waiting for you to open the door when he can slither inside like a shadow moving across the seat. We see his faith and are moved.

I have seen him wait two hours in the front seat because he saw us pack one box in the kitchen that he knows we only load when we are going to the ranch. I assure you, the Blue Heeler has yet to notice this box even exists, yet like NASA tracking the stars, Trace's computations show him that the red box filling with hamburger buns and corn chips will eventually lead to a road trip to the ranch. And sometimes Trace's faith alone, has gotten the poor Labrador bumped from riding in the cab to riding in the dog box in back of the truck, simply to make room for a little red dog with lots of belief. One cannot help but be charmed by someone who puts so much time, energy, and faith into achieving one goal.

The pinnacle of Truck Dawg trips is working the Livestock show. Every year Other Half works the show, checking in exhausted exhibitors who have driven across Texas, who fight the traffic of a metropolitan city with bleary eyes and a loaded stock trailer. And every year, these tired travelers are welcomed by a fellow rancher who answers their questions and gets them set up. And little Trace is right there, sitting in the truck, studying, taking his own inventory of stock trailers. He is Ralphie in the Christmas Story, daydreaming of the day the bulls get loose and someone needs a Border Collie to keep them off the freeway.

He will save the day! He will be the Morning News story. He will make the Yahoo News! He will be a viral internet sensation! He will star on The Tonight Show!

Or maybe - maybe he'll just sit in the truck, waiting, waiting to be needed. Because that's what makes a good truck dog.

The beauty of aging is that with gray hair comes wisdom.

"Pick your battles."

That is the probably the wisest advice you can take for anyone raising kids, stallions, rams, bucks, bulls, or husbands. Assess their behavior, decide where it lies on your scale of 'will not tolerate' and act accordingly. Be consistent, be fair, don't lose your temper, and above all, recognize when a little behavior can grow to something more serious in the future.

Jethro is my first bottle-raised buck. In the past all my bucks and rams have been pasture raised, thus they have had a tiny mistrust of humans. Because I know how big he will become, I've been careful not to make Jethro a pet. I handle him, but I don't pal around with him and love on him like I do the girls. He has wether friends and cows for companionship. The problem with that is that no one really checks him when his play gets too rough. The wethers are too little, and the cows . . . I mean, what's too rough for a cow?

Yesterday I stole a moment to play in the pasture with my camera. It was a cold and windy day, and Jethro was in rare form. He wanted to play - with me. I don't care how tiny and cute they are, don't let rams or bucks or bulls, or stallions play rough with you. Testosterone is not your friend. That silly play can escalate into something really dangerous, not necessarily today, but in the future. A healthy respect for humans is important for your safety and theirs. Many deadly farm animals started out as pets that were allowed to play rough with humans.

I like Jethro. I'd like to keep him for quite a while. Thus, it's important that Jethro understand humans are not toys. Let me state the obvious: You cannot hit or kick a farm animal hard enough to gain its respect for very long. Unless the correction is very well timed and shocking enough to get their attention, you merely gain their interest as a worthy opponent.

I do not spar with farm animals.

That is not to say that I intended to put up with any crap from a juvenile Jethro. So deflecting Jethro's attempts to play, I made my way out of the pasture, and returned with my bodyguard, who had been watching this from her kennel.  She needed no instruction. She simply slithered into place by my side.

 This is the face of The Law. She has an innate ability to read livestock and understand when a challenge has been issued. She knew Jethro was being disrespectful and she was ready to address the issue. This is Clint Eastwood, tossing his pancho over his gunbelt to free up his pistol.

Jethro saw the dog and was initially put off, but then any common sense he had fluttered off in the cold wind, and he trotted toward me again, shaking his ears. The dog stalked forward about four feet. I'll give her credit. She gave him the chance.

He stared at her. She stared at him. The soundtrack to a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western began.

And a gust of breeze took any brains Jethro had left, so he dismissed the dog, and bounced at me again. And Lily darted out like a cobra and bit him right in the nose.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T  (Cue Aretha Franklin)

"Sock it to me. Sock it to me. Sock it to me . . ."

It was a perfectly timed correction. Jethro hightailed it away to reconsider. He stood at a distance and thought about it. The buck shook his ears and postured a bit. The dog just stood there, waiting for him to make her day.

"I think I'll go play with the cows."

And the clouds parted. Jethro had a moment of clarity and decided that he didn't want to wrestle with me anymore. He'd rather play with the cows. He shook his head at us and trotted away to join the cattle. I was then able to go about playing with my camera in peace.

Is Jethro dangerous? No. Absolutely not. He is a big, goofy boy, not even a year old, just trying to figure out who he is  in the world. He likes humans and we like him. But if I allow him to jump on us, and butt us, and disrespect us, he will become dangerous. So for our safety and his, it's just best to have my canine bodyguard at hand.

 "R-E-S-P-E-C-T"

"Sock it to me. Sock it to me. Sock it to me . . ."

Listen to Aretha Franklin: https://www.youtube.com/embed/6FOUqQt3Kg0

When did I go from this:

 21 years old

to this?

 51 years old

A dear friend of mine once said this about aging, "It was like I woke up one day and someone had put a 'fat suit' on me while I slept."

It didn't happen like that with me though, it was a gradual thing, starting in my forties, just about the time I quit running and gunning on patrol and went to a more sedate job as a crime scene investigator. I also went from being an unhappy person to a very happy person. Unfortunately, the happier I got, and the more comfortable I became with who I was, the wider I got. And now for health reasons, I'm not at all happy with the weight itself, but I wouldn't trade the happiness and the wisdom I gained along the years that came with the weight.

When I was skinny, back when I thought I was fat, I was unsure of myself, afraid of confrontation, desperate to prove I was of worth to those in the world around me. Now, now don't piss this fat woman off. Instead of turning away from confrontation, I'm happy to take the fight to them if necessary. Crazy has a name, and that name is a confident woman with nothing to prove.

I stumbled over that concept yesterday after the The Perfect Storm. Other Half is in Arizona this week. I'm juggling a full-time job, eight dogs, and a farm. Not long ago my big truck broke down and I had to pay big bucks to get it on the road again. Then it broke down again, leaving me stranded not once, but twice. The second time the fault was with something the mechanic's shop failed to do properly so they fixed it with no charge. They apologized and sent the truck home and promised I would be happy. I had to sell my beloved old Toyota 4Runner with 300,600 miles on it to pay the mechanic bill for the big truck. That did not make me happy, but at least I had the big truck working. So yesterday I loaded three dogs in that truck and bounced down the road to the grocery store, but halfway there a "check gauge" light came on.

Do what?!

I considered turning around and going back home. Then the puppy peed in the back seat. I sat at red light, mad, trying not to cry in frustration. I phoned Other Half. He was still in class and didn't answer. Screw it. I drove to the grocery store.

Thirty minutes later I climbed back in the truck and guess what? The 'check gauge' light was on again. And the puppy peed in the back seat again. WTF! Thankfully I had a thick comforter to catch the urine, but it did not improve my mood. I was angry at the whole situation, angry enough to drive that truck right back to the shop, peeing puppy and all.

Now a mechanic's shop is like a police shooting range, a fortress of testosterone  which intimidates women. I don't understand mechanical things. If the problem is not a flat tire or a dead battery, I can't fathom it. But guess what, folks. I'm not going to let that stop me from dealing with mechanics. I could have waited. I could have driven the truck home and let my husband deal with it when he got back into town. After all, isn't that what husbands are for?

Normally, being busy, I might have avoided the issue but on this day, I refused to be intimidated by something I didn't understand. I don't understand trucks. So what? The mechanic doesn't understand the stages of decomposition of the human body. He has never reached into a bathtub of decomp goo to pick up a loaded gun filled with maggots. I have. Score one for me. So I wasn't going to let my ignorance of a subject intimidate me and keep me from stalking into that mechanic's shop and saying,

"Remember me?"

Now here's the funny thing. My husband has no social skills, even on a good day. He has no filter on his mouth. If he thinks it, he says it, and he doesn't care who he offends. The last time my truck was in that shop, my husband made it clear to the mechanic that they needed to make me happy because "I" was the crazy one. If they thought he was bad, they really didn't want to meet me.

So as the mechanic was mulling over in his head who I was, I simply said my husband's name. Everything suddenly clicked into place. I saw in his eyes the moment he realized the crazier woman married to the crazy man was standing in front of him. He was most gracious and happy to help me deal with my currrent problem which turned out to be simple and completely unrelated to the earlier issue.

Guess what, folks. Confident women are called crazy bitches by men, but the reality is that we aren't crazy, we just really don't care anymore. I don't know anything about diesel engines, but I refuse to let that intimidate me so much that I won't stand up for myself. And it felt good. I did not walk into that shop, hesitant and meek. I paid good money to fix that damned truck and I wanted it fixed properly. I wasn't rude, I was simply honest, and I wasn't concerned with what he thought of me. My self-esteem is not wrapped up in what some strange man thinks.

He was very nice, solved the issue, and I was back on the road in minutes, with a renewed self-confidence. I could have waited, but if I had waited for my husband to fix the problem, I would have been angry about it all week, and I would have cheated myself out of the opportunity to add another layer to my self-confidence.

I refuse to see myself as a helpless, aging, overweight woman who waits for someone to solve my dilemmas, for each problem I tackle myself gives me more strength to attack the next one. 
 
By now I've been there, done that, got the t-shirt, and have the scars. I have gone places, and seen and done things that most grown men won't do, thus, I have no intention of allowing a few pounds to bring down my self-esteem. I look around at other women who starve themselves, purge themselves, and sweat themselves, caught in a desperate battle against aging.  They are confident that skinny equals beautiful. Skinny equals young. Skinny equals happy. Skinny equals love. Skinny equals acceptence.

Guess what? If those are the reasons you're trying to get skinny, you will be sadly mistaken. Skinny doesn't equal anything but skinny. Skinny won't bring you any of those things. Neither will money. Neither will the right make-up. Neither will the right man. If you are not happy with who you are as a person, getting skinny will only make you a smaller, unhappy person.

Happiness comes from confidence, and true beauty comes from happiness.

Ladies, if like me, you're carrying more pounds than you want, start eating better and exercise for your health only, not for some insane quest to be skinny. I'd love to be in the same shape I was in when I left the police academy, but unless I have drill instructors standing over me forcing me to run and do push-ups, it's not probable. It is more likely that I will learn to eat less convenience foods, and take more time to walk and jog with the dogs.

The important thing is that we not let our outward appearance define who we are as a person. Be confident in who you are, that is where real beauty lies.